«I’m awfully glad, Keith.»
«You see, when you were little they kept sending me snap-shots of you, first as a baby and then as a child in socks playing on the beach with a pail and shovel, and then suddenly as a wistful little girl with wondering, pure eyes—and I used to build dreams about you. A man has to have something living to cling to. I think, Lois, it was your little white soul I tried to keep near me—even when life was at its loudest and every intellectual idea of God seemed the sheerest mockery, and desire and love and a million things came up to me and said: ‘Look here at me! See, I’m Life. You’re turning your back on it!’ All the way through that shadow, Lois, I could always see your baby soul flitting on ahead of me, very frail and clear and wonderful.»
Lois was crying softly. They had reached the gate and she rested her elbow on it and dabbed furiously at her eyes.
«And then later, child, when you were sick I knelt all one night and asked God to spare you for me—for I knew then that I wanted more; He had taught me to want more. I wanted to know you moved and breathed in the same world with me. I saw you growing up, that white innocence of yours changing to a flame and burning to give light to other weaker souls. And then I wanted some day to take your children on my knee and hear them call the crabbed old monk Uncle Kieth.»
He seemed to be laughing now as he talked.
«Oh, Lois, Lois, I was asking God for more then. I wanted the letters you’d write me and the place I’d have at your table. I wanted an awful lot, Lois, dear.»
«You’ve got me, Kieth,» she sobbed «you know it, say you know it. Oh, I’m acting like a baby but I didn’t think you’d be this way, and I—oh, Kieth—Kieth——»
He took her hand and patted it softly.
«Here’s the bus. You’ll come again won’t you?»
She put her hands on his cheeks, add drawing his head down, pressed her tear-wet face against his.
«Oh, Kieth, brother, some day I’ll tell you something.»
He helped her in, saw her take down her handkerchief and smile bravely at him, as the driver kicked his whip and the bus rolled off. Then a thick cloud of dust rose around it and she was gone.
For a few minutes he stood there on the road his hand on the gate-post, his lips half parted in a smile.
«Lois,» he said aloud in a sort of wonder, «Lois, Lois.»
Later, some probationers passing noticed him kneeling before the pietà, and coming back after a time found him still there. And he was there until twilight came down and the courteous trees grew garrulous overhead and the crickets took up their burden of song in the dusky grass.
VII
The first clerk in the telegraph booth in the Baltimore Station whistled through his buck teeth at the second clerk:
«S’matter?»
«See that girl—no, the pretty one with the big black dots on her veil. Too late—she’s gone. You missed somep’n.»
«What about her?»
«Nothing. ‘Cept she’s damn good-looking. Came in here yesterday and sent a wire to some guy to meet her somewhere. Then a minute ago she came in with a telegram all written out and was standin’ there goin’ to give it to me when she changed her mind or somep’n and all of a sudden tore it up.»
«Hm.»
The first clerk came around tile counter and picking up the two pieces of paper from the floor put them together idly. The second clerk read them over his shoulder and subconsciously counted the words as he read. There were just thirteen.
«This is in the way of a permanent goodbye. I should suggest Italy.
«Lois.»
«Tore it up, eh?» said the second clerk.
